


you and i are painting pictures in the sky

by philthestone



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, also the whole Santiago Clan, anyway, four times jake meets the santiago clan and counting, listen Jake being adopted into amy's fam is the most important headcanon in the world, tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 15:32:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5631685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sits across from him this time, catching his small smiles every other forkful, and tries to ignore the warm feeling in her chest. It’s old and vaguely familiar, like she’s experienced it before, and halfway through her plate of rice and beans she’s placed it as the one she felt when he’d sat with her in the hospital after her concussion; the one that appeared on the morning of Christmas eve, watching him make pancakes in Danny’s ill-fitting Captain America t-shirt.</p>
<p>(The one that she gets whenever they’re on a stakeout and he’s relaxing back in the chair, laughing with the corners of his eyes crinkling up and his head ducking down as he smiles – or when she’s overtired, burned out from working on a case, and he shows up at the precinct on his day off with a bag full of Chinese takeout and three cups of coffee just for her.)</p>
<p>That solid, cozy feeling in her chest, happy and nice. Amy never thought that Jake Peralta meeting her spilling-over-the-edges family would <em>put</em> it there, but, well.</p>
<p>Stranger things have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and i are painting pictures in the sky

**Author's Note:**

> the notes i'm adding are hella long, so they're after the fic
> 
> Reviews are Jake's (though it's technically Danny's) captain america t'shirt!
> 
> (i bet jake loves captain america tho)

See, her problem – once she’s acknowledged the fact that it’s maybe a bit of a problem – is that for all intents and purposes, they could have been dating long before they actually - _well._

_Started dating._

Going through a mental checklist, Amy can name at least five things that have remained basically the same since she declared herself Officially In A Mature Adult Relationship With Jake Peralta. They still text at any and all obscene hours of the day and he still peppers her with heart emojis all the time. They share the same friends – have shared them always, with maybe the exception of Kylie, so it was never as though they started dating and had to meld their friend groups together. They tease each other, and have a million – _zillion_ – stupid inside jokes that probably nobody but themselves and that one perp they put away for chronic public urination that time and _maybe_ Gina will ever vaguely be able to decipher. And they still (as if there was ever a time when they didn’t) see each other every day anyway, mandatorily, work-required seeing, even when all Amy wants to do is upend the contents of the trash bin in the women’s bathroom over Jake’s head (pre- _and post_ -relationship, yes).

So it would only make sense – only _fit_ – that this was another one of those things that falls into the “we were practically dating anyway” list that she’s so meticulously put together in her head.

“Santi-aaaagoooo. You’re clutching at the steering wheel again.”

Amy immediately relaxes the tense grip she hadn’t realized she’d had on the wheel of her still-mostly-new car (the air conditioning still smells like powdered sugar) and tries to ease her shoulders back against the driver’s seat.

“No I’m not.”

“You totally were,” says Jake cheerfully, twiddling with the dial on the dashboard and changing the radio station for what is probably the billionth time. “C’mon Ames, I’ve met your family, like, ten times. They love me.”

“Three times,” corrects Amy automatically, listening as the closing bars of _Uptown Funk_ abruptly fill the car. “And I know. Nothing’s wrong.”

Technically, "three times" is also inaccurate. But Amy refuses to count "is part of her brothers' crazy group chats" and "periodically sends snapchats to her supposedly-technologically-saavy father" as _official_ meetings.

Jake leans back against his seat and turns to look at her properly, drumming his fingers erratically against the fogged-up window pane now that he’s no longer fiddling with the radio. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed back and the hem of his blue t-shirt has ridden up just barely against his belly because of the awkward angle he’s lounging in his chair. His hair’s curling around his ears like it always does, and Amy thinks absently that maybe it’s getting too long because – _crap, Santiago, pay attention to the road._

“For the record,” says Jake, “I never said anything was wrong.”

Amy frowns. “It was implied?”

“ _You_ implied it.”

“I _inferred_ it, you mean.”

“That – what? Yes, that. Okay, you totally inferred it. Which means that I didn’t actually say it first.”

Amy grimaces, wrinkling her nose at the highway. The trip from Brooklyn to Jersey isn’t actually that long, and, historically speaking, everything should be perfectly fine. The _most_ chill, in fact. Even more chill than usual, actually, because _historically speaking_ , by now she would have probably threatened to stick Jake in the trunk without snacks at least five times already, and in retaliation Jake would have deliberately changed the radio station to a song that he _knew_ she disliked because he’d managed to trick her into letting him pick the music, and they would have, non-negotiably, already had three rounds of obscenely competitive I-Spy.

Granted, they have just finished I-Spy Round the Second, and Jake’s changed the radio station something close to _infinity_ times in the forty-five minutes that they’ve driven so far – but, overall? _Absolutely_ chill.

That doesn't mean that Amy isn't justified in feeling that this trip in particular is not exactly perfectly aligned with whatever _history_ she's taking into account. Thoroughness is a quality that Amy prides herself on, and Amy's certain that none of the past times she's introduced Jake Peralta to her various family members are comparable to this particular venture. A s far as she has it figured, she should either be swamped with anxiety or absolutely impassive. 

And, just now, she’s edging closer to the _swamped_ side of her gradient. Her options, as she’s so diligently and neatly ordered them in her head, are as such:

Option one: She really shouldn’t be worried at all. In fact, she should be recalling her mother’s delighted expression the last time she ushered Jake into the house with the promise of _papas renellas_ and a bone-crushing hug. Or her brothers arguing over who got to claim him for their team when they played soccer even though Jake _categorically_ sucked. Or her sister-in-law commenting shamelessly and blithely on how they’d be sharing a room and her father actually implying that he had zero issues with them sharing a _bed_ , for crying out loud, or – or – the way her ten-year-old nephew Miguel thought Jake was Literally the Coolest Person Ever, Tia Amy, is he gonna come and visit again? – 

Well.

Amy thinks somewhat weakly that those things combined should be enough to allay any potential introduction-of-Peralta-as-her-boyfriend-related anxieties.

Or, option two: Once again taking into account history - specifically, Historical Family Reactions To Amy's Past Boyfriends (the memory of her mother’s narrowed eyes when Simon opted for a polite nod instead of stepping forward to hug her, for example; or the way her brothers had shot her exaggeratedly horrified looks when Luke admitted to supporting the Knicks, causing them to spend the rest of the evening coming up with creative ways of calling him a traitor) - she should be packing her bags and moving to Paraguay this time yesterday. And, as she’s unsure of whether or not Jake’s fair skin would survive in the sunny South American climate, dropping him off at the nearest gas station with one-dollar hotdogs and free refills on hot chocolate before she goes.

(She’s anxious, okay, not _uncivilized._ )

Amy taps the steering wheel again and trains her eyes on the highway, trying to focus on Jake’s absent humming, steeling her nerves. It’s going to be _fine_ (she repeats, in her head, like a mantra). Jake knows her family already – has met them three times before, in fact – and, if Amy’s honest with herself (something that she’s trying very hard to be, lately) is very different from any of the past Marks or Lukes or Bryans or _whoevers_ that have previously been in her life. 

Not only is he the World’s Biggest Hugger (capitalized because Amy's fairly sure Rosa gave him that title, once, when particularly drunk), a quality that used to irritate Amy to no end but absolutely delights her mother; he’s also wholeheartedly supported the Nets since he was seven (“false,” says Gina’s drawl in her head, “it was _eight_ , people, no one _knows_ such things of import at the naive age of _seven”_ ) – and, more importantly, is warm and personable, always helps her mom in the kitchen, is perpetually ready to joke shamelessly with her dad and has, _once_ , beaten her twin brothers in an eating contest.

“Me and Amy gonna meet the _faaam_ jaaam,” comes Jake’s voice, softly and distractedly singing under his breath as he fiddles with the door lock and stares absently out the window. “Jammin’ with the faaam with the amazing Amy Santia- _goo_ –”

She bites her lip to stop herself from grinning like an idiot and looks back at the road, taking another deep breath for good measure.

**

_(Amy's List: Part One)_

The first time Jake meets Amy’s family, it’s because she gets injured going after a perp and she’s in the hospital, out cold.

“You looked like a dead fish,” he tells her gleefully when she wakes up the second time. And if Amy were a little more alert – if she felt like her head was being danced on by a troupe of tap-dancing rhinoceroses a little less – she’d notice the way his smile flickers a little bit when he takes in her pale complexion. The fleeting turn of his head, the swipe of his hand against his mouth, carefully hiding the concern that’s betraying him. Her partner is many things, Amy knows, but emotionally guarded is not one of them.

But as it is, there are a troupe of dancing rhinoceroses on her head, so Amy _doesn’t_ notice.

Jake is the one that volunteers to go let her parents know she’s okay. Primarily, she guesses, because they’d scheduled a family dinner that weekend and, obviously, Amy wasn’t going to be able to make it and _someone_ had to tell them, Jake says in a too-loud voice. 

But, also, he adds - because he desperately wanted to have an excuse to meet them and embarrass the _hell_ out of her. 

Amy wakes up a little woozy (for a second time), with Jake Peralta’s grinning face blinking back at her expectantly (for a second time). It’s disconcerting, because she feels like everything is weirdly out of place, like there’s a pillow sitting on her mouth and like she can’t quite remember how she got there. Her first instinct is to say that it’s all a little scary, except – well, Peralta’s there, so it’s not. Out of place, that is. Or scary. Whatever – _whatever_ she means.

“M still alive?”

“Dunno,” says Peralta, leaning back in his chair. “What’s my name?”

“Pineapples,” says Amy reflexively. Peralta mouth pinches unattractively.

“I’m gonna regret telling you that ‘til the day I day, aren’t I.”

“Oh, yeah,” mutters Amy, finally feeling like she’s comfortable in her own head again. “So I’m alive?”

“Unfortunately,” he says cheerfully, leaning forward now. Amy would scowl, but his expression suddenly softens, the lines of his face easing up in that way she’s gradually coming to be familiar with. “Hey. Are you – still okay? That guy knocked you pretty good.”

“What happened?”

(Because she honestly doesn’t have any solid memory of the First Wake Up. Except for maybe Peralta’s dumb face. _Weird_.)

“Well, I made another one of my brilliant arrests –”

“Peralta.”

“You got knocked with like, a big metal pole. And now have a concussion. Minor, but it’s still a thing. The nurse said if you feel woozy or like, throwing up or anything, I should holler.”

Amy makes a face. “Please don’t literally holler.”

“Oh, Santiago, you know me so well.”

Amy feels a reluctant grin tug at her lips in spite of herself.

It’s then that she remembers the family dinner: her promise that morning to bring a bag of that nice ground cinnamon she could buy in Brooklyn that apparently didn’t exist in Jersey because her mother wanted to make dessert that night, her father's arm voice on the phone telling her how much he was looking forward to seeing her again. 

Amy sits up straight in her bed abruptly, her back stiffening.

“Woah, woah, _woah_ –” Peralta’s half out of his chair and holding out his hand as Amy tries to breathe around the sudden _woosh_ of dizziness that slams into her. “Jeez, Santiago, lie _down_. What d’you need?”

“Family dinner,” she manages around her pounding head. “I promised – promised Mama I’d –”

“It’s cool,” says Peralta, and his voice is uncharacteristically soothing. “It’s okay, Amy, I already went out and told them.”

Amy blinks at him. 

“You – you called them?”

"Erm," says Peralta. "Well. No. I drove out."

Amy abandons blinking and full-out gapes.

"You _drove_ out to Jersey?"

He shrugs awkwardly, slumped back in his seat now. The hard plastic of the chair must be pretty uncomfortable, and for the first time Amy notices that he’s the only one in the room; that his eyes have that bruised, just-a-little-unfocused look they get when he stays overtime working on a case and forgets to sleep that night and comes into work the next morning operating only on a massive cup of coffee that’s really more sugar than caffeine. He runs a hand through his already-messy curls and shrugs again, a little more coordinated this time.

“Yeah, sure.”

It's the wicked grin that slides onto his face which makes Amy forgets to be confused at his ( _exhaustion? Awkwardness? Presence in her hospital room?)_ – at _him,_ in general – in wake of the much more demanding task of groaning with horror at the fact that _Jake Peralta met her family._

He makes a big deal out of the exact position he was standing in when her father opened the door, the way he charmed her mother and managed to catch a glimpse of three-year-old Amy on the wall of the front hall. He’s exaggerating his voice that way he does when he’s making up a backstory for one of his dumb characters, and Amy makes a consistent and unbroken _uuuuunnnnnnnngggghhhh_ noise that Peralta seems to thrive on, gleefully describing each of the four of her brothers he’d met in great detail.

But then he’s telling her that her father told him to say sorry that he won’t be able to visit her in the hospital until tomorrow, and that her brother – Luis? Michael? (“I’m a failure,” Peralta moans, “I was so ready to remember _everything_ about them –”) sends his love, and that, was Amy aware, her mother’s cooking is _literally_ the most incredible thing Jake’s ever tasted, _God_ it’s heavenly, Santiago, how did you ever _leave_ that house – 

And unexpectedly, sneaking up on her like the trickle of coziness that comes along with a decent cup of spiced chai tea, Amy feels a bubble of warmth blossom in her chest. It makes some of the ache in her head and neck diminish, and she’s pretty sure has nothing to do with any painkillers she might be on. She learns that apparently, Peralta managed to not only finagle his way into a free dinner ( _typical,_ Amy wants to say, while also wanting to never ever think about her parents being in the same _room_ as Jake Peralta _ever_ because _oh, God, the embarrassing stories that might be swapped_ ) he also “bonded with your super cool brothers, who are way less dorky than you” (that right there could spell Total Disaster in and of itself, regardless of whether or not Peralta now knows how to kick a soccer ball in a straight line and – no, no, you should not do this again sometime, this was _only once_ –) and was given all of the leftovers from dinner to take home, because apparently Amy’s mother is an actual angel (on that, Amy can agree.)

He produces a bag of leftovers, smelling so achingly familiar and like home, and it's then that Amy feels a sudden pang of homesickness that she’s not felt in ages. She’s prepared to vigorously blink away the sudden prickle at the back of her eyes when Peralta, still rummaging through the bag of food, looks up to smile warmly at her and mention that her brother and Mom are coming to visit her later that afternoon. 

_No worries, it’s cool, Santiago._

(She wonders at what point Jake Peralta got _that_ good at reading her expressions that he knew to say that without Amy even opening her mouth.)

Peralta insists that she eats them with him, because, _obviously_ , he can’t eat them all alone. Amy knows for a fact that this is untrue – he can eat _anything_ , as long as it’s got some sort of salt, sugar, or fat in it, and never seems to stop eating even though none of it sticks to his bones. More importantly, there’s a niggling thought in the back of her mind that having that much leftovers filling your fridge can feed you for a solid three nights, and that means three nights of free food, and, economically, were she to be budgeting for herself, she would capitalize on an opportunity to -

But he insists, tugging open his old battered work bag and pulling out paper plates right there in the hospital room like he’d planned this, pushing the food at her insistently. They eat her mother’s heavenly _papas renellas_ and rice and peppers while Jake tells her unashamedly that he’s gonna move in with her parents just so that he can be consistently fed good Cuban food. Amy’s just realized that he’s made sure her plate isn’t empty for a second the whole time they’ve been eating when he checks his watch and swears, apparently realizing that he’s supposed to be back at the precinct to do their paperwork by now and Rosa’s definitely gonna kick his ass for forgetting because now _she_ has to deal with it.

“So I’ll just – leave the leftovers in the fridge I guess? Is there even a fridge here, I think there must be, I mean this is a hospital, or whatever but do, do hospitals have fridges –”

“What,” says Amy, because her head is still a little foggy and she’s trying to smooth down her blankets and make sure she didn’t spill any rice on them.

“Leftovers,” says Peralta, raising his eyebrows at her like she just blanked on the Most Obvious Thing In The World ™. “You can take them home when they dis –”

“Are you kidding?” says Amy. “You’re taking those leftovers.”

Peralta purses his lips.

“Seriously, Santiago, it’s not – I figured you’d want your Mom’s cooking ‘cause you’re –”

“I get my Mom’s cooking all the time,” she says, tilting her head and somehow managing to frown at him despite the persistent fogginess of her head. A fogginess which is probably a bad thing, but whatever; convincing him to take the food seems like the most important thing in the world to Amy right then. “You take it.”

“I –” He seems on the verge of arguing. “Are you sure?”

“Do I _look_ unsure to you?”

He quirks a grin, shrugs with one shoulder. “I dunno, Santiago, you still look a little out of it to me.”

“Take the food, Peralta,” she says, wondering why she’s bothering to fight him on this. “I go to my parents’ all the time.”

And it’s true; she gets Cuban food from her parents at least once a month and since he is, obviously, never meeting her family again because that would be a terrible idea, he should take advantage of the – the food, or whatever. 

There’s something about the fact that he thought of her first, though, how he was prepared to give up another night of free food that is oddly uncharacterisitc; it tugs at Amy's chest, settling alongside the Chai-tea-warmth. He’s slinging his bag over his shoulder and Amy flicks a piece of rice at his head before he turns.

“Hey, Peralta. I –” She takes a deep breath and smiles at him, because it feels right. “Thank you.”

He grins at her, the big, wide-lipped, toothy smile that she’s gotten so used to in the four years she’s known him.

“’S what partners are for, Santiago,” and he’s giving her this exaggerated look like _duh, Amy, keep up_. “Don’t get too spacey without me here to take pictures, ‘kay?”

She ignores him, and pushes forward. “No, I mean – thanks for being a good friend.”

His face softens again – and there’s that sincere affection that she’s come to recognize, the one which she figures means _hey, I’m twelve hundred percent ready to annoy you til the end of time but I’d also take a bullet for you with only mild complaining – _and blink-and-she-misses-it something else, like a small flicker of tenderness that she’s never seen before.__

“Yeah,” he says, “of course.” 

And then the grin is back, and he’s saluting her in a ridiculously over-the-top manner and yelling, _“Santiago admitted that we’re friends!”_ to the hospital at large. Amy rolls her eyes and slumps back against her pillows. 

** 

_(Amy's List: Part Two)_

The second time, Amy blames a dangerous amount of holiday spirit and possibly some kind of hallucinogen that might have seeped into her system via osmosis from the perp they’d caught early that morning. Or maybe the smell of Gina’s nail polish from across the room, which Amy privately thinks could probably knock out Dwayne the Rock Johnson if applied correctly. 

(Jake thinks she’s being absolutely ridiculous when she tells him this theory – but then, _he’d_ spent every other week of his childhood crouched with Gina in the fire escape of their apartment building, being forced to hold her polish bottle while she did her nails – something Amy knows because Gina had _told_ her so, once – so he’s probably immune to the stuff.) 

It happens about two years after Amy gets knocked out by that perp, after Jake drove all the way to Jersey and supposedly charmed her Mom out of three days’ worth of leftovers. They’re sitting at their desks wrapping up some paperwork before they take the weekend off for the holidays. She’s known forever that Peralta hates holidays – has been broadcasting it loudly since she met him, actually – but this year when the Sarge stops by their desks and asks the casual, “So, what are y’all’s plans for this weekend?” and Jake shrugs and says he’s probably just gonna kick around at home, or whatever, Amy frowns and raises her eyebrows at him. 

“You’re seriously not doing anything?” She hopes that her voice doesn’t sound as disapproving as she feels, because she’s been working on being chill about other people’s decisions, but judging by Jake’s amused look, she doubts that any Obscuration of Disapproval actually happened. “What about – ” And she almost winces - “What about your Mom?” 

She wonders if it's too personal; she knows that Jake has always been a little cagey about family stuff. But she's heard him, before - he’s dropped sentences about having dinner with his mother, giving her a ride someplace ‘cause she didn’t feel comfortable taking the subway, his eyes lighting up warm and caramel whenever she’s brought up in conversation. Amy pushes her self-doubt to the back of her mind looks at him expectantly. 

Jake brushes it off, tossing his rubber band ball in the air. “She’s on this single’s cruise she and Darlene won a couple weeks ago. So it’s just me. But that’s cool, I’ll probably just, I dunno, go to a bar or something. Hanukkah finished two days ago, anyway.” He tosses the ball again and waggles his eyebrows at her ridiculously, so over the top that it’s obvious he doesn’t mean an iota of what comes out of his mouth. “What about you, Santiago? Hot date?” 

Somehow, despite his dumb teasing, the words come out of her mouth. 

“My Mom’s making Cuban food.” He catches the ball and looks at her. His eyebrows have come down on his forehead, almost like he’s unsure of what she’s saying, so she swallows down her irrational nerves and plows forward. “I mean,” she says, “if you – if you want. To come. Half the family's, like, _there_ , so it might be – overwhelming? But like – sorry, if that’s weird if you think it’s weird you don’t need to –” 

But Jake’s grinning at her, tossing his ball again. “Are you kidding? The day I willingly turn down Mama Santiago’s cooking is the day I am in my _grave_ , Amy. Like, seriously, if one day I happen to say ‘no, Santiago, I don’t want your mother’s amazing Cuban food’, please immediately and without hesitation announce me clinically insane and put me away in that freaky asylum down the street from –” 

“Okay,” she says, and a part of her wonders if she’s going to regret this, but you know what, who cares. “Peralta, shut up before I uninvite you from almost-Christmas dinner.” 

“Yep,” he says, and immediately mimes zipping his mouth shut. 

Of course, the hallucinogen seems to have worn off completely by the time they’re standing in front of the door to her parents’ house; that's right about when Amy starts seriously doubting every decision she’s ever made in the course of her life. She’s voluntarily brought _Jake Peralta_ to her _parents’ house _for _Christmas._ __

They’re partners at work. Eighty-two percent of the time, he makes her want to shove someone's head through the off-white bullpen walls. They’re not even particularly close _friends_. 

Okay, well. Amy supposes she ought to amend that statement. Or most of her statements – she isn’t questioning her decision to become a cop, not really; most of the time, despite her persistent and unwavering frustration with his general existence, Amy can admit to actually enjoying Jake’s company, loud and over-exuberant and sometimes-childish though it may be; and if she’s honest, the hallucinogen must have started wearing off sometime close to when Amy ushered Jake into the front seat of her car, because there’s been a persistent twist of anxiety making itself comfortable in her stomach since the slam of the car door. 

(She’d called her parents’ house before they left the precinct to inform them that she was bringing along a friend, because Amy’s been raised with manners, and manners dictate that it’s rude to bring unexpected guests along with you to family dinners without at least some kind of heads up. Her father’s voice on the other side of the line had broken out into laughter when she’d said Jake’s name, and that was about when the anxiety began, Amy figures now, because he’d said, “Oh, your partner! Good, I like that boy. Should I tell your mother to do anything special to the food? He is from a different background, yes?” and Amy immediately wanted to kick herself internally because she never thought about that and oh, no, what she’d made her mother’s life more difficult? 

Of course, Jake had told her with an eye-roll when she tapped on the car window where he was slumped in the shotgun seat that absolutely anything was okay with him as long as it didn’t have broccoli in it, which Amy should have probably expected, but the niggling anxiety remained throughout the car ride.) 

The hallucinogen-less feelings remained through the whole drive to New Jersey (wherein Jake changed the radio station at least twenty billion times and almost convinces her that driving the car into a ditch would be a smart plan of action). Amy spent her time reminding herself of the fact that no one should be alone at Christmas (not even if they don’t technically _celebrate_ Christmas) and worrying about whether or not it would be awkward. 

Amy knows awkward. Amy’s done awkward before. Awkward is, like, the name of Amy’s _biography_. 

If there’s one thing she knows with more certainty than the fact that no one should be family-less at Christmas, it’s that awkward _sucks._

They stumble out onto the pavement once she pulls into her parents’ driveway, her car wedged behind Raphe’s minivan and her parents’ old Honda, and Jake blows a raspberry at her before grabbing her duffle bag from the back seat, fast enough so that she can’t grab it first. It’s only once they reach the front door and Amy’s lifting her hand to press the doorbell that Jake drops the bag to the ground by his feet, tugs down at his hoody and leans over. 

“Quick recap,” he says in a low voice, and absurdly, Amy suddenly wants to giggle at the fact that _finally_ , he looks a little anxious too. “Which one of your brothers is the oldest?” 

“That’s Raphe,” she says, glad that this is something familiar and easy she can do – list her multitudes of crazy siblings. “He’s married to Maricia, and they have two kids – Miguel and Becky.” 

“Right,” mutters Jake, rocking back on his feet. “Right right right. And then the two – I met two last time and they were super loud, like even _louder_ than me –” 

“Oh, that’s the twins, Danny and Ed.” 

“Aunts and Uncles?” says Jake, raising his eyebrows encouragingly. 

“My Tia Maria should be here,” says Amy, frowning when he smirks – undoubtedly at the rhyming name. Amy raises her eyebrows at him. “And I’m sure she’ll love interrogating you about your whole life story, so be prepared.” 

“Ha-ha,” says Jake, smirk widening. “Overbearing Aunts are where I _live_ , Santiago. Have I ever told you about my Great-Aunt Esther?” He raises his voice to a nasal drawl, so obviously exaggerated that Amy has to bite down on her lip to stop herself from laughing. “Oh, Jacob, you’re getting’ so _tall_ , honey. Haven’t you settled down with a nice girl yet?” 

“Whatever you say,” says Amy, desperately stifling her laughter against her hand. She tells herself that she's still annoyed with him, still anxious, and he's not _allowed_ to try to make her relax, right now. “But she’s scarier than all of my seven brothers combined, so …” 

“Yeah, right,” says Jake easily. He's still rocking on the tips of his feet, but he scoffs, eyelids fluttering. “Your brothers are literally _all_ taller than me.” 

“So’s Tia Maria, champ.” 

Jake falters on his toes and stares at her. “You’re not serious.” 

“I’m pressing the doorbell,” says Amy, and presses the doorbell. 

“Wait,” Jake whispers furiously at her as the sound of thumping feet comes from the other side of the door.“Wait,” Jake whispers furiously at her as the sound of thumping feet comes from the other side of the door. _“Wait_ – which one’s the –” 

The door flies open, and there’s a split second where Amy takes in the warm yellow lighting of her parents’ front hallway, the smell of cinnamon and fried onions and the look on Luis’s grinning face before she’s pulled into a massive bear hug. 

“Hey, little sister!” 

There’s a pattering of feet around them. Amy can hear the clamouring sounds of, “Tia Amy’s here!” from her nieces and nephews, crowding the hallway, and a shout of “EEEY, MIMI!” from somewhere upstairs, undoubtedly hollered by either Carlos or one of the twins. She pulls away from Luis so that she can breathe and reaches over to grab the sleeve of Jake’s sweater, yanking him through the door.

“Luis,” she says, “I can’t remember if you idiots have met already, so, this is my partner, Jake Peralta. Jake, this is my guitar-playing weirdo of an older brother, Luis.” 

“Hey, man!” says Luis with all the expected Luis gusto, and leans forward to give Jake a bear hug of his own. Somehow, Jake manages to keep his eyeballs in their sockets and offers Amy a lopsided grin over Luis’s shoulder. Amy rolls her eyes at him. 

From around the vicinity of her elbow, her niece Becky jumps up and down twice and hollers down the hallway, her status of Eldest Grandchild making her the unofficial spokeswoman for the Hoard. 

“DADDYYYYY, ABUELAAA, TIA AMY’S HERE WITH HER FRIEEEEEND!” 

As per the norm with Amy’s family, everything is happening all at once. Amy’s passed around for hugs, tugging Jake behind her and hoping he doesn’t get trampled. She’s used to it – the many cheek kisses and hugs and the tugging at hands, but she knows Jake isn’t, and the knot in her stomach twitches a little every time she sees a new familiar face in the hall. This isn't even the whole family; she's sure two of her uncle are going to come tomorrow afternoon, and her cousin Oscar said he couldn't make it until six in the evening on Sunday. She hopes that Jake's uncanny ability to take everything in his stride doesn't desert him, and she's not entirely disappointed; he’s shaking hands and getting his back clapped and kneeling down to introduce himself to the kids with more finesse than Amy herself would ever have in the situation she’s just dragged him into. 

It isn't until three more of her siblings spill into the hallway that Amy catches the way Jake's neck has stiffened, or how he's started to smile with his mouth closed. 

_Shit._

She’s glancing back at Jake so frequently now that she barely registers the presence of Carlos, Manny, and Julian’s wife Jen in the already-crowded hallway; from somewhere between the crowd of legs, Miguel’s voice is sounding, and there's someone Amy is too distracted to identify yelling about enchiladas from the living room. She tries to move back and grab Jake's arm again, her stomach churning with guilt, but Raphe’s there working his magic and ushering the kids into some semblance of organization - guiding them out of the hallway and into the living room so that Amy can breathe, and at some point, through being crushed in a rugby tackle between both Danny _and_ Ed at the same time, her mother’s voice cuts through the chaos. 

“ _Bien, bien, darles un poco de espacio,_ you crazy monkeys – I’ve raised a hoard of animals, I tell you – Amy, _mi pequeña niña_. I’ve missed your beautiful face, my sweet girl.” 

Amy tries for a grin and reaches over to give her mother a kiss, tugging the wet dish towel from the careworn hands reaching out to her and putting her own purse on the floor so that they can hug properly. 

“Mama,” Amy pulls away a little to look at her mother properly, her grin growing wider at the familiar sight of the floral collar under the old, worn yellow apron and the dusting of cinnamon on her mom’s cheek. They stand at the same height, and Amy lets her mother loop an arm through hers and squeeze her elbow affectionately before she turns, hasty and nervous and insides twitching, and opens her mouth. “Mama, I think you’ve already met –” 

“Aha! There he is, my friend!” her mom is saying, releasing Amy’s elbow and pushing past a smirking Carlos to face Jake, who is standing wedged between Julian and Isabella, curly hair looking a little more dishevelled than usual and only one of the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his elbow. 

Amy isn't sure if her raising eight children has made her mother the most perceptive woman in the universe, or if she really _is_ this excited to see Jake again, but the minute he sees her mom, Amy can see Jake's entire frame relax. The slight crease between his eyebrows disappears entirely and he smiles – soft and sincere, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Jacob, come here, come here – let him _go_ Isa, go help your mother set the table – come and give your old woman friend a good hug.” 

Jake’s “Hello, Mrs. Santiago,” is accompanied by a warm hug and her mother patting his cheek happily, like they’ve known each other forever. 

Amy stands there staring at him; her mouth is probably a little bit open, and Jake smiles at her (a little less lopsided, this time) over her mother’s shoulder. 

_Your Mom’s cool,_ he mouths at her; Amy feels a disbelieving laugh bubble up in her chest, buoyed upwards by the anxiety still pressing against her diaphragm. 

“Mama, Maricia’s wondering if she should turn off the stove,” she hears Ed say, and Amy takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. 

“I – Mama, let Jake go, we need to say hello to –” 

And then Jake says, “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Santiago,” to a spot behind her left shoulder, and Amy raises her eyebrows at him and whips around. Her hair, half-come out of its ponytail, sticks to the corner of her open mouth as she goes. 

Amy thinks that if she could use one phrase to describe the past sixty seconds it would be, “What a _wild_ ride,” similar to something Charles had said earlier that week about experiencing three different Christmas cake flavors at once. Her father is standing at the doorway to the kitchen, threadbare cardigan pulled over his yellow t-shirt, hair thinning, and eyes twinkling at her behind his glasses. 

“It is good to see you again too, Jake.” 

Amy feels her shoulders relax another notch and tilts her head at him, grinning knowingly; if she knows anything about her father, it’s that he’s been standing there quietly observing the chaos for the past five minutes, too comfortable to actually try to dip his feet in. 

She detaches herself gently from the three-year-old Isabella who has managed to glue herself to Amy’s left leg and takes the two steps forward – lets herself wrap her arms around her father tightly, allowing the built up anxiety in her chest to be swept away by the feeling of home that she welcomes so readily each time she visits and the image of Jake's shoulder's relaxing. She buries her nose in the crook of his shoulder and inhales the smell of old books and chili powder, welcomes the scratchy feeling of his sweater against her cheek. 

“Hi, Papi.” 

“Amalia, _mija_. You look tired.” 

Amy pulls away and shakes her head fondly, the ritual so familiar and automatic that she doesn’t even need to think about her response. “I’m fine, Papi.” 

“You are certain?” 

She smiles and arches an eyebrow at him; they do this every time – the back-and-forth “please tell me you’re taking care of yourself” that comes from knowing each other well enough to know that Amy’s workaholic tendencies (see, _there_ , she’s not too proud to admit it) come directly from Miguel Santiago. Her father returns her smile, softly, and Amy feels her own grin widen. She leans in conspiratorily. 

“Is Tia here yet?” 

“She’ll make it before dinner starts,” says her father, his expression turning to one of resignation. Amy gives him another eyebrow arch and is about to lean in for a second hug (a show of solidarity and resigned comfort) when there’s a quirk to his mouth and a raised hand, halting her, that she’s not anticipating. 

“Ah, Amalia; you should rescue your friend before your brothers abduct him for _fútbol_ in the front yard.” 

And it doesn’t even occur to question why she knows this so readily, but the first thing that pops out of her mouth is, “What? Oh my God, Jake _sucks_ at soccer, he face-planted into the goal post once when he was eleven.” 

She misses her father’s amused chuckle when she turns back around to face Jake kneeling on the ground, right in time to see him pause in talking animatedly to Becky and Isa and Julian’s five-year-old Sam (his brown eyes once more alight with at least a little bit of their familiar warmth) and ask her mother – hesitant, hand running through his hair – if there’s anything he can do to help prepare for dinner. 

Her mother’s voice calls back from the next room, unhesitating. 

“The potatoes need peeling!” 

Amy freezes. 

Clearly, Carlos is thinking the same thing she is, because he smirks at her again and waggles his eyebrows from across the hallway as Amy turns away from her now-chuckling father to scoop up her discarded duffle and purse and glare at her annoying older brother’s face. 

Admittedly, Amy hadn’t _quite_ believed Jake the last time they’d talked about her family in a serious, not-in-passing fashion. 

Also admittedly, she’d been lying slightly-disoriented with a concussion in a hospital bed and Jake had somehow been making the simple act of sitting across from her and munching on Smarties obnoxious. His claim that he’d charmed them was, quite frankly, doubtful in Amy’s mind; primarily because she didn’t think Jake knew what the word “charm” meant (and, once again _admittedly_ – a very grudging admission, but an admission nonetheless – Amy had, even then, become accustomed to catching glimpses of a goofy kind-heartedness that was certainly endearing, if nothing else. But _charm?) –_

But also, because despite the plastic bag full of leftovers and her mother’s warm, “Oh, we met your partner yesterday! It was very good of him to drive out and tell us you were hurt, Amalia. Please thank him again,” the next day when they visited her, there was still a large part of her that kept her work and her family boxed into two separate compartments, deliberately pushing them very, very far apart from each other. 

She remembers now, hoisting her duffel bag over her shoulder and marching through to the laundry room to temporarily deposit her thing, how Jake had grinned at her ( _annoyingly_ , but still) after she thanked him for being a good friend. Amy places her bag carefully on top of the drying machine and takes a minute to sit, the wicker of the old laundry basket digging into her butt. She remembers Jake's grin and the way he'd leaned into her mom's hug and feels a little less disoriented by the sight of her father’s twinkling eyes and her mother’s use of The Potatoes, a Santiago Family Dinner Staple. She knows she's told Jake everything and a half about nearly all of her brothers - stakeouts can get tiresome, after all, and it gets boring and stale and silly, pretending like they both don't want someone to overshare with in the crappy back-alley lighting of Jake's old, gross Mustang. She knows, too, that she's talked about how big her family is, has complained about her mother's not-so-discrete texts suggesting possible boyfriends, has mentioned her niece's obsession with lip-gloss. 

And now: The Potatoes. 

Amy’s efforts to compartmentalize seem to have been completely in vain; Jake’s practically part of the family, at this point. 

Her stomach twists weirdly at the thought. 

There’s only so much control Amy has over her partner’s whereabouts for the rest of the evening – between helping her mother and Julian clean up the pots and pans, catching up with Maricia over placing napkins at the table, and being conned into an arm-wrestling competition by Danny and Ed, she doesn’t see him much. But she recognizes Jake’s pile of peeled potatoes sitting on the kitchen counter, hears his laugh from adjoining rooms more than once, and is carrying the platter of rice to the table when he stumbles back in through the door with the rest of her brothers, nose pink from the cold and eyes shining with energy and all eight of them caked in snow and mud and bits of grass from what was undoubtedly the most ridiculously over-competitive soccer game in the history of ever. 

Tia Maria arrives as she usually does, just barely in time for dinner and razor tongue sharpened to a point. 

Despite her earlier vindictive teasing, Amy feels an involuntary sigh of relief escape her lips when Maria's interest in Jake wanes the moment Becky declares her newfound dream of becoming a dolphin-trainer, the old woman's energies immediately diverted to lecturing the over-excitable little girl and her pained mother about the lack of meaning in such a frivolous profession. Jake's still smiling, somehow having managed to keep his composure throughout the interrogation; but the tension is back in his neck and shoulders, and Amy listens as his response become more and more monosyllabic. 

He's nothing but pleasant and polite, and Amy hates it. 

So she reaches under the table, completely on impulse, and squeezes his knee. 

Tia Maria is distracting Becky and Maricia; Amy's mother is busy ladling extra helpings of beans onto Miguel's already-half-filled plate; and her father is in the middle of an intense discussion about the philosophical undertones of Marvel's _Daredevil_ with Raphael and Carlos. Nobody notices the way Jake starts, his hands jumping abruptly against the table, and turns to look at her. 

Amy bites her lip and tries not to let her own anxiety bleed into her expression. Upon meditation, putting hands on professional colleague's knees is not generally ever a smart plan, even in emergencies, and - 

Jake blinks once, twice, and then looks down at his lap. When he looks up at her again and quirks a grin, she feels his own hand cover hers, and Amy grins back. 

(The anxiety is still twisting at the pit of her stomach, but. Well.) 

Amy stays put in her seat for the rest of the evening, leaning just slightly towards her partner and helping him keep up with all the family gossip under her breath as the dinner progresses. She laughs with him through Julian teasing Manny about his newest on-and-off relationship with guy who works at the coffee shop down his street (“a _barista_ ,” says Carlos wisely, nodding to their grey-haired, horrified-looking aunt, “so beautifully clichéd, Manuel,” and Manny throws a piece of corn at him when Maricia isn’t looking); through Danny and Ed flicking bits of bean at each other discretely and animatedly dragging their father into an argument about superior brands of cheese; through Carlos’s longtime girlfriend Alexa stopping Sam from dumping his plate of rice over his head; through her aunt’s not-quite-subtle hints that Luis should give up his guitar-playing ways and _actually_ settle down in a place that offers him a bed other than his friend’s living room couch (and her father’s consequent loud defence of Luis’s freedom to live his own life the way he pleases – even though, as Amy whispers to Jake while Raphe snorts into his potatoes and Danny and Ed starts outright laughing, their father’s nagging of Luis is, at this point, a thing of legend). 

And when her mom glances out of the window and comments on how dark it’s getting and whether or not Jake’s staying the night, Amy thinks she does a pretty good job taking it in her stride – barely needing to glance at Jake with frantic eyes before gathering her thoughts, admitting to herself that she was an idiot for not thinking this far ahead, and doing her best to casually agree with her father’s suggestion that they set up one of the remaining old air mattresses on the floor of Amy’s room. 

“Or they could just share a bed,” says Jen from across the table where she’s sitting between Carlos and Manny, flashing Amy what could only be a sly smile. Amy barely has time to hear the unattractive snort from beside her or feel herself choking on her forkful of rice before her father nods, contemplative, and says, 

“We _are_ short on mattresses, yes.” 

_“Papa,_ ” hisses Amy, at the same time Jake says, with far more ease than Amy could ever manage, “You’re gonna have so much fun sleeping on the bare floor, Santiago.” 

He doesn’t look embarrassed at all – only amused, eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth and mouth quirked at the corner, baiting her. 

(She decides to attribute the pinkness around his ears to the earlier hour of rigorous soccer-playing in the snowy front yard.) 

So Amy says, “I’ll kick your butt before you get within five feet of that bed,” to his grinning face, even as her brothers start laughing far more uproariously than Amy thinks should generally be legal and her mother clucks her tongue, smiling. 

“It’s settled, then,” says Amy’s mother. 

“ _Dios_ mió,” says Tia Maria. 

“If I take bets on who’d win that fight,” says Carlos, “would anyone actually pay up?” 

Danny lends Jake an old pair of sweatpants and a faded Captain America t-shirt that hangs a little too loosely from his shoulders, a size too large. Amy is distracted by attempting to help Raphe and Alexa put the kids to bed, making sure than none of the spilled food from dinner is still garnishing the old dining table, and she goes through the motions of her evening routine without thinking, only realizing that she’s no longer wearing a bra when Jake returns from the bathroom across the hall, changed into the borrowed pajamas and flopping down onto the pile of amassed blankets on the floor before Amy can think to be chivalrous and suggest that _she_ actually take the floor. 

She crosses her arms over the front of her threadbare NYPD shirt reflexively, then realizes that that was probably a dead giveaway – wonders, the anxiety rebuilding in the pit of her stomach, if she should uncross them, or put her hands on the knees of her striped pajama pants, or just not care at all – before she realizes that Jake isn’t looking at her at all but instead at the walls of her childhood bedroom. 

His wide eyes are eagerly drinking in the soft yellow walls and faded posters that haven’t been changed since she left for university, the knick-knaks sitting on the top of her dresser and the quilted One-Hundred-and-One Dalmatians bedspread that she’s currently sitting on. She’s ready for the teasing that is inevitably going to come, the gentle jabs about the wind-swept hair of the dashing young two-dimensional poster version of Leonardo Dicaprio on the brow of the Titanic, when he turns to her and smiles – a real, honest, genuine smile that she supposes is only surprising because she wasn’t expecting it at all. The corners of his eyes crinkle up with warmth. 

“Santiago, your family is so awesome.” 

Her arms loosen slightly, across her torso. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yep,” he confirms, wiggling his toes, which are now devoid of socks. “Even Maria, who I have to say I am a _little_ disappointed to see leave! That woman, Santiago, is a delight. I thought me and her were really hitting it off, you know?” 

Amy laughs, the sounds breaking free of her mouth before she can stop herself. Maria claimed, as always, that her own bed was more comfortable than even the finest of accommodations provided by Amy’s father, and is due to return the following night for _nochebuena_. She watches as Jake’s expression slips into a frown. 

“I can’t believe she’s _actually_ taller than me, though.” 

She laughs again, pressing her hand to her mouth. He’s looking at her expectantly, so she lets her laughter die out and, on impulse, glances at the closed door of her bedroom, beyond which the sprawl of her massive family is spread, even now still missing two uncles and five cousins and her wrinkled, bespectacled _abuela_. 

Amy tugs at her shirt self-consciously. 

“They’re – they’re a little wild, um, and crazy? But yeah, they’re –” She takes a deep breath and it suddenly hits her that nothing he said warrants a defence of her family’s craziness. Unanticipated, the knot in her chest ease up once more. “They’re a handful, but … I love them, you know?” 

Jake’s smile changes, a hint of something she can’t quite place creeping into the tilt of his lips, and he shrugs. 

“I guess.” 

She laughs, frowning at him. “You _guess_?” 

He leans back on his elbows and shrugs again. “Yeah, I guess. I never really – anyway, just, me and my Mom were always pretty – _not_ , like. A handful. Or whatever.” 

“Oh,” says Amy. 

“Eh,” he says. She spends a half-second trying to come up with Something to say because that seems to be the Right Thing To Do before he’s talking again, his eyebrows set suddenly-serious and low on his forehead. “Seriously, though, Santiago … I don’t know if I’m entirely comfortable sleeping here.” 

There's an impossibly quiet moment of silence. 

“Oh, my _God,_ I _knew_ it was gonna be weird, I promise it’s not – it doesn’t mean _anything_ I –” 

“Poster Leo’s perving me out,” says Jake, and even then it takes her a moment to catch the sudden, flashing mischief in his eyes. “He’s just staring soulfully at me from up on the wall and I feel violated by his piercing gaze –” 

“Oh my God, you _jerk_ ,” (and her brain’s catching up, now) “I thought that you – you were – _ugh_ , Peralta!” 

“How do you change in this room, he’s always _looking_ at you? Was teenage Amy into that? Ohmigosh, _please_ tell me teenage Amy was into th –” 

She grabs her pillow and throws it at him, yelling out triumphantly when it catches him in the face and he lets out an involuntary yelp. His smartass laughter is muffled by the weight of the pillowcase hanging from his face. 

“You’re the _worst_ , Peralta. _The_ worst. Like, I hope you feel so creeped out by poster Leo that you don’t sleep at _all_ –” 

“ _Very_ likely, actually –” 

“Just shut up and go to sleep,” she says, and sticks her tongue out at his still-laughing eyes, peaking up from under her pillow. Which, she now realizes, she needs back. 

He tosses it at her face and she narrowly dodges it (not without a little measure of triumph), and suddenly thinks about how full the house is; about how many people are stuffed in each room, about how the extra mattress was point-blank refused – 

About how she still can't believe that they're sharing her _childhood bedroom_ like it's no big deal, about how Jake had accepted her mother’s insistence at third helpings of food with only mild protest, and about how she’s sure he thinks she hadn’t caught the fleeting wistfulness in his eyes in between rounds of the fan-favorite game, “let’s see who can come up with the most embarrassing possible stories about Amy Santiago.” 

(Which, incidentally, Julian had won.) 

Amy crawls under her Dalmatian covers and clicks off the light without giving herself a chance to overthink the whole situation any more than she has already. 

Except – and for the life of her, she can’t remember who decides to speak first – they're suddenly whispering, their voices half-muffled by the dark, smothering their laughter like teenagers at the first slumber party; Amy's giggling uncontrollably, pushing her fist into her mouth to quiet the sounds. She traces the lump that is Jake’s body in the darkness with her overtired eyes and she _can’t_ stop laughing, it seems, her body buzzing with the lingering vestiges of anxiety-induced adrenaline from earlier and not-so-earlier in the day. She catches, in between breathless bursts of laughter, the way his giggles are swallowed by the fact that his face is half-pressed into his pillow, the disarray of the top of his curly hair against the crumpled bedding on the floor. 

(She is too tired, when she finally falls asleep, to notice the obnoxiously red number three on her old alarm clock on the nightstand.) 

Amy wakes up in the morning to find the makeshift pile of blankets on the floor deserted, and when her growling stomach leads her to the kitchen wherein only about a fourth of her family has regrouped in, she finds him standing at the front of the stove helping Raphe flip pancakes and agreeably letting Isabella hang from his arm, listening to her mother talk about God-knows-what with more genuine interest and enthusiasm that Amy feels she herself would be able to muster up on any given day. 

He’s still wearing the Captain America t-shirt, though he’s changed back into his jeans. Amy accepts a mug of coffee from Alexa with a smile and watches Isa try to use Jake’s arm as a set of monkey bars with an easy warmth in her chest and – only noticing later – a steady weight of ease settling her stomach that she’d been trying to achieve since the beginning of the day before. This is easy; this is nice. She doesn’t feel like she constantly needs to be better than him, to push back when he pushes forward, to scramble for the top like they do at work. And Amy’s known for a while – admitted it, even, out loud – that they’re _friends_. 

(But the truth of the matter is, Amy’s never been particularly good at _friends_ \- and this toeing of the line between partners who are constantly poking each other with metaphorical sticks and trying to out-compete each other to people who, like, _hang out,_ has been nagging at the back of her mind for the entirety of the past year.) 

Jake’s grin widens when he sees her, and she pushes her confusion – which, come to think of it, she’s not sure that’s the right word because when was the last time _confusion_ accompanied warm chest-y feelings –? aside and shakes her head at him, raising her eyebrows at the niece hanging from his limb and the surprisingly-not-a-disaster pancakes being managed on the stove. He shrugs at her while her mother turns to pull the fruit out from the refrigerator. He pulls a goofy face, attempts the flip the pancake by just jerking the pan and ends up yelping as the patty falls awkwardly and breaks in half. 

Amy starts laughing. 

She finds that she can’t seem to stop all throughout the morning - not until she’s ushering him through the door, now dressed completely back in his own clothes, listening to him thank her parents for feeding him and promising her mother she’ll be back in time to go to mass with the rest of the family in the evening. 

“You don’t need to drive me all the way back home,” Jake tells her when they get into the car, tucking his hands between his knees and looking over at her. He's not hesitating, exactly, but his voice is quiet. “I can just, I dunno. Something else. You should spend more time with your – family, and stuff.” 

Amy purses her lips and turns on the radio. 

“You’ve driven out of your way for me before,” she says, for some reason feeling like she can’t quite meet his eye. “Fair’s square.” 

“I’m pretty sure the expression is ‘fair is fair’, Santiago.” 

“Shut up, Peralta.” 

He grins, and reaches over to change the radio station. 

** 

_(Amy's List: Part Three)_

Jake fidgets a lot less on long car rides when he’s the one driving. 

Amy’s spent enough road trips with him to pick up on this, on the drastic decrease in his tapping fingers and jiggling legs and aimless fiddling with various knobs and dials on the dashboard. 

He still changes the radio station constantly, though. 

“Can we just – keep it at _one_.” 

Jake glances over at her in the passenger seat and pulls an exaggerated face. Amy feels herself forming the beginnings of a groan in the back of her throat. 

“But where’s the fun in that?” 

“It’ll keep me sane?” 

“Aw, _Santiago_ –” 

“Okay, how’s this. It’ll keep me from committing murder in the middle of the highway.” 

“Ouch,” says Jake, and reaches over, one hand leaving the steering wheel, to rummage behind his seat. “Whe – ah! Got it.” 

He waves his beaten up, three-generations-old iPod in her face. 

“No,” says Amy. 

“Plug it in, loser.” 

“ _No_ , your songs are the _worst_ –” 

“My songs are amazing –” 

“I’m not listening to an hour of Taylor Swift!” 

“Okay, first of all, one of these days you _will_ be converted, and, B, honestly I’m shocked you kept your promise and never _told_ anyone that’s my favorite – just, whatever! _Ugh,_ Santiago, you’re the worstest of tasteless nerds and I’d say I hate you but that’s untrue, do you want me to keep flipping the station or not?” 

Amy plucks the iPod from his hand, glaring at his smiling, unconcerned, brown-eyed large-nosed profile. His curls are just barely too long, brushing against the tips of his ears and making him look boyish. If Amy were in a slightly less tolerating mood, she decides, she’d have said impish. 

(If Amy were in a slightly more _honest_ mood, she’d have said cute. But she’s feeling particularly dishonest, at that moment in time.) 

“I can’t believe you were the first person I called.” 

“I _am_ amazing.” 

“This iPod is cracked in five different places.” 

“Santiago, are you going to spend the whole drive to Jersey forgetting that I’m self-sacrificingly driving your broken-down-car-owning ass an hour and a half away out of the goodness of my heart, or are you gonna plug my fabulously up-to-date iPod in and be nice?” 

Amy plugs the iPod into the old dashboard and says, “Forgetting. Also, ‘self-sacrificingly’ isn’t a word. If you wanted, you could have used, ‘graciously’, or, ‘selflessly’ –” 

“ _A-_ my Santiago. Stop being you and toss me the iPod.” 

By now, Amy’s mostly used to the frustrating amount of bad karma the universe directs her way enough to not be surprised by her current situation. Usually, a broken-down car ten miles after she leaves the precinct followed swiftly by a delightful early-March rainstorm when she’s due at her parents’ house in forty minutes would be the cause for concern, but Amy’s mostly resigned. 

Besides, Jake showed up in record time. Which is a small measure of comforting, if only because of the fact that it gives her a solid reply to the internal question, _Why did you think to call him before anyone else?_ something that she’s trying to respond to with a better comeback than _Well, he’s my_ partner. 

Work partner. At work. Work stuff. Police colleagues. 

Jake’s car kind of sort of smells like old cheese, with five Milky Way wrappers and an empty soda cup littering the backseat, and there’s something that Amy guesses might be a fossilized pair of balled up socks stuck under the CD holder. They get the heater to start working after three consecutive tries where Jake almost breaks the knob off of the dashboard. Amy’s wet hair wisps around her face as it dries, the stale air blowing at her while she leans back against the old leather and watches Jake drive, wondering if maybe when she phoned the tow-truck, she should have told them to stay on call in case _this_ car broke down too. 

His comment just then is the first time he’s even alluded to the inconvenience of her asking him to drive her all the way to her parents’ house; something he agreed to do with no hesitation at all. 

“I told Cap’n Holt you’d probably need a lift,” he’d said earlier, in response to her doubtful look, shrugging and rummaging through the glove compartment. His arm was reaching over her, and Amy leaned away from the brush of his shoulder, shoved at his arm when her stomach fluttered really, _really_ unexpectedly. “So he gave me the evening off. Hey – ah, there it is.” He’d turned back to her, one hand already tugging at the knot of his tie, and held up an old box of doughnuts. “Want some?” 

“Um,” Amy had said, eyeing the doughnuts apprehensively. “How long have they been in this car.” 

“Only since this morning,” said Jake cheerfully, flipping the top open and stuffing one between his teeth, even as he’d used his sugary fingers to turn the key in the ignition. Amy was reaching over to pluck one from the box when he’d swallowed his mouthful and added, “but before that they were sitting in my closet for an indeterminable amount of time.” 

“Delightful.” 

“They are kinda stale, now you mention it.” 

The box is perched precariously over the cup holders between them, now, and Amy lets Jake take the iPod from her, turning back and staring out the window at the rain streaking against the windowpanes. It’s only when the music fills the car and she unconsciously starts singing along under her breath that she sits up a little, frowns at the window, and then turns around to look at him. 

“You – is this – this is _Journey?_ ” 

“Excellent detecting, detective,” says Jake, tapping his fingers in time with the beat and keeping his eyes on the road. The notes of _Separate Ways_ blast from the iPod’s old speakers, background to Amy’s confused frowning. 

“You _hate_ Journey.” 

Jake makes a noise that sounds something like “Ppppbbbbfffft,” and shakes his head at the road, but something about the sudden awkward tension in his neck makes Amy want to press the matter even more than before – which, okay, she’s a _detective_ , alright? She’s just – curious. 

(Oh, _no_ ; that excuse is a Tried and True Peraltaism. Get it _together,_ Santiago.) 

“Um, no, you told me – you _told_ me last time we were driving that you hate Journey, you said, ‘ew, Santiago, that stuff is so lame’ –” 

“Uh, yeah, ‘cause it _was_ –” 

_“Ha!_ ” Her voice is loud and more excited than it probably should be, but she’s always a little thrilled when she proves him wrong. It’s biologically programmed into her genetics, Amy thinks, though Amy doesn’t know enough about biology to be able to prove that statement is scientific in the least. “I was right! You don’t like it,” says Amy, smiling smugly and crossing her arms. 

There's a beat of silence wherein Amy wonders if she should be _quite_ this triumphant. She loves Journey, after all – the “I’ll dance around to these songs without an ounce of shame in my PJs at three in the afternoon” or “I’ll clean all the toilets with an overabundance of zeal because this is my background music” kind of love. She’d told him so, last time they were driving upstate to pick up a perp, when she’d insisted that they listen to at least one song, because they’re all classics and they remind her of helping her Dad clean his library as a kid – 

“Whaaaaaat,” Jake is saying, still not looking at her and shrugging his shoulders. His voice is doing that weird sing-song thing that it sometimes does when he’s uncomfortable with the situation, and for the life of her, Amy can’t understand why. “Um, okay, _maybe_ , but that was – many, many moons ago. So what?” 

“So why is it on your iPod?” 

“I dunno,” says Jake. “You just – you said you really liked it, and we go on – roadtrips, and. Stuff. All the time. Like for work?” He shrugs again, clears his throat, and then smirks at her, glancing over the dashboard. “It’s not _that_ lame.” 

Amy feels the smugness in her smile slip away. And the – the stupid – _fluttery thing_ , in her stomach. 

(Get it _together_ , Santiago.) 

“Oh?” 

“Yep,” says Jake. “But like, two-song limit. Next one’s Jay Z.” 

She thinks that that’s fair, and the rest of the drive is spent normally; no weird sing-song voices, no unexpected fluttery feelings, and no more unusual choices in music. Amy supposes that she should have anticipated Jake flipping through the iPod’s shuffle option in much the same way that he did with the radio, and resigns herself to the constant change in the music filling the stale air of the old, Jaked-up mustang. 

She also supposes that she should have known that he’d wait in the car until her mother opened the front door for her, and that, inevitably, her mom would march down to the car, scold him for not coming in to say a proper hello, and then bully him into accepting dinner. 

So. 

She sits across from him this time, catching his small smiles every other forkful, and tries to ignore the warm feeling in her chest. It’s old and vaguely familiar, like she’s experienced it before, and halfway through her plate of rice and beans she’s placed it as the one she felt when he’d sat with her in the hospital after her concussion; the one that appeared on the morning of Christmas eve, watching him make pancakes in Danny’s ill-fitting Captain America t-shirt. 

(The one that she gets whenever they’re on a stakeout and he’s relaxing back in the chair, laughing with the corners of his eyes crinkling up and his head ducking down as he smiles – or when she’s overtired, burned out from working on a case, and he shows up at the precinct on his day off with a bag full of Chinese takeout and three cups of coffee just for her.) 

That solid, cozy feeling in her chest, happy and nice. 

She swallows, and focuses on the dinner table, on catching up with Edmundo and making faces at Danny and letting Luis try to give her romantic advice through song lyrics and brag excitedly about his new job. 

There aren’t as many family members over this time, the table significantly less crowded – enough room to maneuver elbows, at any rate. By now – officially round three of Throwing Peralta Into The Maelstrom of Santiago Zaniness (though Amy knows for a fact that Jake sometimes plays basketball with Danny and Ed on weekends) - Jake knows her brothers well enough to slip right back into the easy, joking back-and-forth that Amy witnessed last time, at the tail end of almost-Christmas. Mostly, as per tradition, Luis, Danny and Ed (the three unmarrieds of the Hoard, not counting herself, which requires them to come to dinner every other week in an Official Capacity that does not apply to the elder four of her brothers) spend the dinner entertaining themselves by swapping their newest offerings in the way of terrible puns and finding different ways to tease Amy. And, as Jake is a card-carrying pro in the art of Amy Teasing, the evening flies by comfortably, filled with quick-coming laughter and relaxed smiles. So much so, in fact, that Amy forgets that Jake has to leave after dinner; that he’s not staying the night. 

She’s offered to help her father clear the dishes when Jake clears the plates from the table with Luis, still laughing over something likely silly and ridiculous, and, dumping the dirty silverware into the sink, elbow bumping into hers, he says to her mother: 

“Thank you so much for dinner, Mrs. Santiago, but I’ve really gotta go. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay and help with the –” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says her mother, batting his hands away from the sink. Jake is crowded between Luis's shoulder and the kitchen sink, his arms squeezed against his sides, but he grins nonetheless. “You get home safe. And thank you for giving Amy a ride here, yes?” 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” says Jake, throwing her a smile. Amy smiles back, rolling her eyes because that’s what she does – what _they_ do – and she wipes her wet hands on the dishtowel, intent on following him to the door. They listen to her mother switch between calling to her father in Spanish to come and say goodbye like a civilized human being and insisting to Jake that he call her Pilar because that _is_ her God-given name, is it not? 

When they step onto the porch, after her mother’s hug and her father calling goodbye from the bathroom upstairs (“Oh, _boy_ ,” mutters Amy, while Jake muffles his laughter against the back of his hand), she gives him one more smile. The rain’s pretty much stopped, and the night is cool and humid, the wetness clinging to the air and making her cheeks and upper lip damp. 

“Hey,” she says. “Thanks for like, totally giving me a ride last second.” 

“It’s fine, Santiago.” He taps a finger against the side of his head. “I got a free dinner out of it, so.” 

She laughs. “Every time, huh?” 

“You know I’m only your partner for the excellent Mama Santiago cooking.” 

“Well, _durr_.” 

He smiles at her, and there’s something about the softness of his eyes that she can’t quite place – something that’s been there intermittently since the Worst Date Ever, since he pulled out all the stops to humiliate her but they ended up sitting on a roof throwing nuts in the air and … 

Actually having a really nice time. 

“Anyway, I should go. See you later, nerd.” 

“You know _what_ –” 

But he’s turned and is jogging back to his car, laughing; she times herself perfectly so that she sticks her tongue out at him _exactly_ when he turns to open the car door, and she watches his grinning face until the car’s pulled out of the driveway and been swallowed by the dark March night. Amy stays standing on the porch, breathing in the cool, wet air, and trying to stave off her smile by biting down on her lower lip. It’s impractical and insensible and she’ll probably catch cold, but her feet feel weighed down to the wooden porch panels. Slowly, her smile morphs into a frown, teeth still chewing on the peeling skin of her lip. 

(Later, she’ll miss the freezing of his smile when she tells him she finally has a date – miss the single beat-too-long it takes him to gather his thoughts before he says, “You look great!” and smiles that sincere, warm smile she’s become so used to seeing. 

She won’t miss her own flash of disappointment that he doesn’t say anything else – a _confusing_ flash, to say the least, but a flash nonetheless – the feeling inevitably shoved away to a corner of her mind and deliberately ignored.) 

“Amy.” 

She starts, turns around; her father is standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly. 

“Oh – oh. Hi, Papi.” 

“You are not cold?” 

Amy looks down at the goosebumps at her forearms. 

“No.” 

“Alright,” he says, wrapping his knuckles lightly on the door frame. “When you come in, lock the door behind you.” 

“I always do, Papi.” 

“Yes,” says her father, smiling at her, gentle. “I know.” 

** 

It’s not Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or Easter, or any other particularly important holiday, and for that, Amy is grateful. It means more breathing room, more elbow room, and more space to be able to maneuver herself, her anxiety, and her boyfriend without stepping on anyone’s toes. 

Jake’s stuffed an old t-shirt and an extra pair of socks into his work bag, this time, and also his toothbrush (sharing toothbrushes, Amy still maintains, is the _grossest_ thing she’s ever heard), and he slings the bag over his shoulder when they get out of the car. Amy’s clutching her own extra tote bag with a slightly tighter grip than perhaps necessary, staring at the suddenly-imposing sight of Raphe’s Honda on the other side of the driveway. 

“Hey,” says Jake’s voice beside her ear. She jumps a little and turns to him, not having realized that he’d made his way around the car. “Ames. _Breathe_.” 

“I’m breathing.” 

“Promise?” 

“Pinky swear.” 

He smiles, the type where his mouth remains closed but his eyes scrunch up and fill to the brim with excitement, and Amy feels her chest ease up a little. 

It’s almost like they’ve gone back in time, Amy thinks, when Luis opens the door – _almost_ , because while once more, she’s engulfed with the warm smell of cinnamon and fried onions, this time she’s nervous for an entirely _different_ set of reasons, and this time Jake’s not standing awkward and hesitant behind her but rather letting his fingers nudge her forward against the small of her back. 

_This time,_ the universe has spun around itself for long enough that she can say confidently that she’s in a different place, a _better_ place, than she was the first time Luis pulled her into a bone-crushing hug with Jake standing there behind her. 

“You’re early, Mimi,” he teases, releasing her. “I mean,” (and he’s raising his voice up an octave) “more _punctual_ than usual. Did you accidentally mark the wrong hour in your planner?” 

“Ha ha,” says Amy. “Very funny, _listillo_. The traffic was less than we thought.” 

“Ah-ha,” says Luis, nodding gravely, stepping forward to grin _hello_ at Jake, even as there’s a sound of pattering footsteps and Ed’s head pokes down over the top of the staircase. 

“YOOOOOO, PERALTAAAA! And little _Mimi’s_ here, HEY –” He turns, half of his torso hanging over the banister. “HEY, _DAN_ , GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THE TOILET –” 

Amy rolls her eyes at the sound of Danny hollering something muffled and unflattering back from the upstairs bathroom and slings her bag off onto the ground, stepping aside as Luis grabs Jake into a hug of his own and claps his back, listening to Ed thumping down the stairs and her mother’s voice calling something from another room. Maricia’s face appears in the hallway, Miguel trailing behind her with bouncy balls on his feet; Amy has time to smile at her warmly and get halfway through exclaiming over how tall Miguel’s gotten in Typical Boring Aunt Fashion before Danny and Ed crash into the hallway at once – one of them grabbing Amy into a hug and immediately proceeding to rub his new beard all over her face with glee (“ugh, _Daniel!_ ”) while the other tackles Jake, the enthusiastic, “Hey, man, we haven’t seen you in _ages!_ ” filling up the small space of the hall quickly and efficiently. 

“Where’s Papa?” 

“Ran out to the grocery store." 

"What, did we run out of yoghurt already?" 

"Nah, something about bananas -" 

"Hey, so I was reading this thing on buzzfeed the other day, Mimi –” 

“ _Buzzfeed_ , Carlos, _really_ –” 

“Okay, _look_ –” 

“Amy, you won’t _believe_ what my third graders said on Thursday, you’ll laugh so hard you’ll make that funny wheezing noise, you know the one you always do? _Yeah_ , so –” 

“ _Oi_ , Neanderthal, you stepped on my foot!” 

“Danny –” 

“ _Luis!_ ” 

“Yo, Peralta, did you see the Nets game from last weekend? Man, that was _crazy_ –” 

“Carlos –” 

“Give them some _space_ ,” says Maricia in an exasperated voice, laughter colouring the ends of her words. 

Amy is turning to thank her when she catches sight of her mother coming through the doorway. 

“Hi, Mamita,” she says, heart fluttering up into her throat. Jake’s somehow been pushed right up beside her so that their arms are pressed together. The familiar exclamations of delight are given, being pulled down one after the other up against the soft, lined cheek smelling of caramel onions, before Amy’s mother steps back and seems to drink them in. 

It really _has_ been a while since Amy’s visited home, so she doesn’t think it’s odd that her mother would be doing the whole Let Me Look At You Properly Thing. Except, she’s halfway through nodding appreciatively at the fact that Amy doesn’t seem to have lost any weight before her eyes move from Amy to Jake and her eyes suddenly narrow. 

The bustle and crowing in the hallway is the same as always, and Miguel’s calling for Becky is familiar and normal, and Danny and Ed’s jostling in the corner is too, and so is Luis’s hand at her elbow and Maricia’s exasperated smiles – but her mother, putting her hands on her hips and taking them both in at once, has a distinct _look_ on her face that Amy thinks could probably be used to command entire armies of ancient Romans. And, were Amy a sensible sort of person, should simultaneously scare her and relieve her. 

Luis and the twins and Maricia all seem to catch onto this look too, apparently. There's a sudden thickness in the hallway that makes it feel like everyone’s holding their breath, and when Raphe peeks around the end of the hall to say hello he stops mid-step, and pauses hallway through his sentence. 

Finally – 

“Jacob,” says Amy’s mom, “come help me in the kitchen.” 

Jake says, “Sure,” and does a very bad job of hiding his grin, his mouth stretching as the smile takes up his whole face, glancing back once at Amy as he goes. She’s brought a hand up to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips; her mother’s tone can _only_ mean that Jake’s about to be interrogated bluntly over the pile of peppers and potatoes in the kitchen sink, and all of Amy’s carefully-planned announcements have just been unceremoniously batted out of the window by the metaphorical baseball bat. 

Amy thinks that if her mother ever took up baseball as a sport, she’d do particularly well. 

“How can she _know_ ,” Amy finally manages in a horrified whisper, even as Maricia’s eyebrows go all the way up and the twins whistle, low under their breath, and Raphe starts laughing at the entrance to the hallway, his shoulders shaking so hard he has to lean against the wall for support. 

The bustle of the hallway resumes full force. Amy is still standing in the middle of the entrance to the house, hand pressed against her mouth, when Luis appears at her side, one arm wrapping around her back and squeezing her against him, whispering appreciatively in her ear: 

“Nice _work_ , little sister.” 

There’s a sparkle in his eye and a grin on his lips, and maybe it’s a little bit proud of her. 

Amy leans her head against her older brother’s shoulder, her hand dropping away from her mouth, and lets her smile light up her whole face. 

(Later, they lie together, limbs tangled up in the twin bed, and Amy’s trying not to laugh at Jake’s horrified discovery that the Dicaprio Poster and its accompanying soulful stare is directly across from the bed. Her fingers are caught in his t-shirt, the vibrations from his own laughter reverberate through her ribs. 

“I’m serious, Santiago. You should really take that down sometime.” 

“No way! He’s been here forever. It’d feel _wrong_.” 

“But, like. I can’t make out with you if he’s watching us.” 

“Priorities, Peralta.” 

“Ugh. Do I need to fight him, Amy? ‘Cause I will. I will battle with Nineties Poster Leo for your affections –” 

“And he’ll probably win.” 

“That’s – you – oh my God, you’re _right_ , this is _terrible_ –” 

“You’re so weird,” Amy says, poking his side and listening to him squeal, squirming under the Dalmations bedspread. “And I’m not making out with you with like half of my brothers down the hall. Ever.” 

“Challenge accepted,” his whisper melodramatic and his breath fluttering against her nose; Amy stifles a giggle against his shirt. 

“ _No_. Go to sleep!” 

Jake tugs her closer to him and presses his cheek up against the top of her head, his hug soft and warm despite the cramped feeling of a bed meant for one small teenager and not two fully-grown adults. She can feel the curve of his cheek where he’s grinning against her hair and she feels her own smile grow, lets her cold toes poke him in the calf as she shifts slightly to make herself more comfortable. 

“Hey, Amy?” His voice still smiling in the darkness of the childhood bedroom, but softer - gentler. Amy’s fingers press against the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under her hand. 

“Yeah?” 

“Your family’s really awesome.” 

“I know,” she says. She’s still smiling, pressing her cheek against the soft fabric of his undershirt. 

She doesn’t say, “They’re your family too, you know,” even though she _knows_ that it would be true – has been for quite a while, actually. _Doesn’t_ because that offer was made ages ago, the first time she blurted out _my Mom’s making Cuban food_ halfway through his rubber band ball hand toss. The offer’s been made _so_ many times, and Amy can’t help but think that she would feel differently about it, differently about the continual vulnerability that comes with exposing her entire personal life – _compartmentalized boxes_ , remember – if Jake hadn’t accepted said offer, without fail, each time she’d held it out to him. 

She listens to the way his breathing slows and evens out and lets her eyes flutter closed, her smile still firmly in place.) 

**Author's Note:**

> a) this is way too long. oh well
> 
> b) I have edited this MASSIVELY upon transcribing this from le tumblrino, and I am so much happier with it now than I was before. It's still not my best work, but, eh. i'll never be satisfied with it completely, so might as well put it up
> 
> c) listen. Jake is already buddies with amy's whole family before they start dating. THUS FAR, THE SHOW HAS NOT DISPUTED THIS, AND SO IT'S TRUE
> 
> d) that being said, the ending of this story is technically not-canon, as per the law ordained by The Mattress. which is totally unfortunate, but whatever. I still like this idea.
> 
> e) general disclaimer; these headcanons and ideas have been accumulated over long periods of time, and are not intended to mimic any other fics. any similarities drawn are accidental and not deliberately copied. lots of times headcanons amalgamate from various sources, and this fandom is very, very creative.
> 
> f) title from taylor swift. of course
> 
> g) THE MOST IMPORTANT NOTE: if I butchered the spanish or any aspect of cuban-american culture, please tell my so I can rectify my mistakes. I did my research, but. as we all know, google translate is never your best friend, and I really hope I didn't mess anything up too badly. please let me know!
> 
> xxo


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